Quoth Thine Love’s Tragic Curse
by Regina Imperatrix
Summary: Revered and retold far and wide, are the greatest love stories ever known to man. NB


**Title:** Quoth Thine Love's Tragic Curse**  
Category: **Gossip Girl**  
Pairing/Character(s):** Nate, Nate/Blair**  
Rating: **M**  
Disclaimer: **Gossip Girl and all immediate characters, themes and ideas are registered trademarks and belong to Cecily von Ziegesar, Josh Schwartz and Stephanie Savage. No profit is being accumulated from this writing piece.**  
Word Count:** 4,694**  
Spoilers:** No (AU future fic)**  
****Warnings: **Angst, adult themes, language.**  
Summary: **Revered and retold far and wide, are the greatest love stories ever known to man.

* * *

Paris and Helen.

Mark Antony and Cleopatra.

Romeo and Juliet.

Revered and retold far and wide, are the greatest love stories ever known to man. But perhaps there's something to be said, a cruel yet fitting jest, that all of these tales should end in fated tragedy.

Does tragedy befit and define a heartfelt romance? History certainly attests to such, boasting a plethora of accounts far more dreadful than the last, but he does not need to look towards romanticised tales and timeless plays to find an answer. For he has lived love's tragic curse, experienced it over and over like some broken timepiece, and thus fell prey to its merciless onslaught. It has left him with nothing – nothing that _truly_ matters, anyway – broken and so confused. Or maybe he's just drunk.

Yes, he's had far too much to drink.

It's his graduation party, he thinks, at long last done with Yale and law and he has to pause to wonder how on Earth _that_ happened and… and why the fuck is he graduating from _Yale_? His thoughts are blurry – as is his sight – and he can scarcely recall anything save chocolate locks and ruby red lips. Ah, now he remembers; Yale was _her_ dream. Fitting and familiar, and he'd been grasping, for the longest of time, helplessly grasping at anything that would remind him of _her_. For she is but a memory, now tied to another, and there's only so much he can do to keep the dream alive. That warm, comforting dream; wherein they were not damned to end their short venture as another of history's tragic love stories.

So he finds measly solace in a world of fantasy, playing the role of prince charming she had deigned upon him so long ago to utter perfection. In this dream, he fights for his Queen, fights _hard_, particularly against the sly demon that sought to consume her and _take_ her from him. His head hurts, and he has to close his eyes as he begins to recall that cursed day she said 'I do'. A part of him had died then, swept to Hades, at the thought that she was eternally lost to him. She'd looked happy, so he'd said nothing; no objections… no confessions. But when his former best friend had characteristically decided to taunt his victory, he had unapologetically punched the bastard in the face. Hard.

And it had felt good.

He smiles at the memory of crimson tainting the white of a shirt, almost a lifetime ago and another life altogether. He'd left New York after that, he remembers, acquiescing to Grandfather's grand plans for him if only to give his life _purpose_ and _meaning_ and to help him _forget_. The Washington crowd wasn't what he'd expected – or maybe it was – but he'd eased into it like a well-tailored blazer made out for him.

A new beginning. A new life. It was time to start anew, his sanity _depended_ on it… but try as he might he still could not forget….

"Blair…."

He hears _her_ name. He thinks he is the one that called it out, but the voice isn't one he can recognise. It is too desperate, broken, sluggish… and… and there's suddenly laughter echoing in his ears. The noise sets off a blinding pain against his skull and his eyes clamp shut in a bid to still its ferocious intensity.

"The boy's gone mad."

"Leave him be, alcohol isn't his favourite mistress."

The first voice isn't one he knows, but he's fairly certain the second belongs to Tripp, and why the hell is Tripp there? Oh right, his graduation party… which was _his_ idea now that he thinks about it. He'd appeared out of nowhere like some cunning Iago and promised him a party to remember, which, funnily enough, he doubts will be the case. He'd reluctantly agreed, dragged out of his snug condo, and whisked away to some mansion in the middle of some obscure wooded area.

He grimly shudders at the idea of Chuck having rubbed off on him after so many years – his idea of a night to remember had always been hookers and coke and Victrola and 'Lost Weekend's' and nothing presently agreeable – and he suddenly remembers asking if they were going to see strippers. If he could feel his arms, he would have punched himself senseless right there and then. But thankfully, Tripp had other ideas.

"Strip clubs are _so_ plebeian."

Or so he'd said.

He opens his eyes and spots his respectable cousin, monopolising the legroom with an expansive seated sprawl, and watching him with a condescending grin plastered on his face… and why the fuck isn't he drunk?! That isn't right, not when he's so far off the edge and just about ready to fall into some never ending pit of delirium. His gaze falls on the glass presumably filled with Scotch beside him, and a wave of unexpected apprehension suddenly overwhelms him.

Something isn't right….

"And I suppose this 'Blair' is his paramour?"

"Ha! He wishes… sadly, it's the one that got away."

They laugh again and he feels his stomach drop.

"I think we can help with that."

Just as he's trying to figure out what the hell Tripp may have given him, he catches something in his periphery… a hypnotic trail of black that manages to snare all of his attention. Trying to focus on the newcomer, he closes one eye and squints through the other, and when his vision momentarily clears he sees….

"Blair!"

He dismisses the amused snorts and chuckles around him, and reaches out for her with unabashed necessity. He can scarcely believe it – overlooked are all the improbabilities and calls for reason – but it is _her_, he's sure of it! The wavy blown locks framing her angelic face… those tempting red lips he so longs to taste again… it's all Blair, _his_ Blair. She's come back to him, when he thought he'd lost her forever.

"Blair," he calls out again, desperately pulling at the soft robe she's wearing so as to bring her closer towards him and placate his burning need.

"Be gentle with him… his mind's not entirely there."

"There's an understatement, considering how he's been acting all night. I'll wager you a hundred he weeps when he sees her bosom."

"What kind of a man do you take me for? I can hardly gamble money on family."

"Ever the virtuous; your grandfather must be _so_ proud."

The ongoing conversation and occasional laughter is but a distant distraction, and his focus is entirely upon the heavenly goddess before him. But when she unclasps the obtrusive piece of material and exposes her exquisitely naked form to his scrutiny, he can only pause and blink like a deer in the headlights. For even in his intoxicated state he can discern the differences between what he sees and the Blair he remembers – her sacred image forever imprinted in his mind – and this girl's breasts are too large, her skin slightly darker, her legs longer… and that should _not_ be the case. So he looks up at her face the moment his sight clears, and studies her somewhat familiar, yet totally foreign, features and dark lifeless eyes.

It isn't Blair.

"W-what the hell?!" he exclaims, his hands dropping from her waist as he attempts to back away unsuccessfully, reality at long last crashing down upon him.

"Something wrong Nate?"

"She's… she's not Blair!"

"Well of course she isn't, but the difference is practically negligible."

"Heed your cousin's wise words lad," says one of the other men he scarcely knows, "And consider the feminine virtue of obscurity; they are all the same where it _counts_, after all."

The group laughs, and he thinks he's going to be sick. His stomach stirs unpleasantly, and if he were able to move, he would have left that very moment courtesy of this 'graduation party' slowly turning into a repulsive nightmare.

"Nate would probably disagree with you," he hears Tripp say as he desperately reaches for his glass, however unwise, in the hope that he may at the very least drink himself into a coma. "He's only ever had one _true_ love. And for the young and naïve, there is only _one_ virtue revered above all else… and that's _fidelity_."

His words are like a punch to the face, and he instantly stills as a deafening silence overwhelms the entire group.

And he's falling, all of a sudden, falling into a pit of heartache and depression as he slowly picks up his glass and finishes his drink in one go. His gaze is swimming, but he manages to catch his cousin's eyes with a look so hard and cold it would have put even Medusa's stony glare to shame. He doesn't want to believe Tripp could be deliberately cruel, but the amused glint in his eyes begs to differ and he doesn't know what to make of it. What he does know, however, is that he feels downright terrible as an old wound reopens, bringing with it an unforgiving torrent of memories better left forgotten amidst the numerous pages of history.

"How ironic," another voice speaks up, finally breaking the silence, "The one quality that just happens to be in short supply."

He swallows, his mouth dry, as he focuses on filling his lungs with much needed air because he can scarcely breathe. It feels as if he has run a marathon, from one corner of the globe to the next, because the rapid movie playing in his mind has left him utterly exhausted. He sees it all; a drunken Serena, a teary Blair, a smirking Chuck… and finally himself, in a moment of hateful irrationality, throwing away a friendship and forsaking the love of his life forever. But they _all_ played a part in this odious game… friends betraying friends, lovers betraying lovers, and it's easy to conclude how loyalty has no place in their hearts despite how much they seem to yearn for it.

If only he'd been wiser… if only he hadn't been so self-obsessed with random shit to actually pause and consider what he was throwing away – because this all started with him and he _hates_ himself for it – he may have salvaged the best thing that ever happened to him. But there's no such thing as second chances, he reminds himself grimly, as the conversation picks up again.

"Just when did you become so wise, young William?"

"Your grandfather must–"

"Yes, yes… he must be so _proud_," Tripp interrupts with a slight sarcastic tenor, before turning his gaze on him again. "With my dear cousin, as well, seeing as he has shown such _fidelity_ to the family legacy. We didn't think it was going to happen, but cutting unfaithful ties certainly seemed to help."

"Wait… what?" he asks, clearly confused.

"Come on Nate, those alleged friends of yours were clearly baggage you could do without. The proof is right in front of you; just look at what you have done for yourself since you cut them from your life."

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, barely aware of the forgotten doppelganger kneeling silently before him and clinically working on undoing his pants. "Wait a minute…."

"And then there's Blair…," his cousin sighs with a knowing glance that sets off a churning in the pit of his stomach and he suddenly doesn't like where this is going.

"What are you talking about?"

"I won't lie, she's an incredible woman, but you need to forget about her and move on with someone else… preferably of loyal character."

"Huh?" he says, noticing the girl at last as he tries to both coordinate his limbs into stopping her distracting actions whilst keeping his attention on Tripp.

"Take Maureen, for instance. Proper, unassuming and _faithful_; all ideal qualities, and such is a woman men in our position need to be seen with."

"Here, here," someone cheers but he ignores them, his focus on Tripp and he can scarcely believe what he's hearing.

"Are you saying Blair has none of those traits?!" he asks angrily, but before his cousin can answer, he quickly goes on a drunken rampage. "You don't know her; she's as proper as can be, smart, dedicated and… and the most amazing person I have ever met! So don't you dare insult her Tripp!"

"I wasn't insulting her, but even Blair has her faults. Faults that _you_ felt warranted the end of a long history of complacent happiness. Don't make me out to be the bad guy, Nate; _you_ are the one who gave up on her."

"Shut up…," he whispers under his breath, frustrated and ashamed at hearing a truth he knows so well, and he doesn't need his righteous cousin telling him just how far he's fallen.

"But she didn't make it easy on you, did she? Leaving you constantly for that backstabbing excuse for a friend… so much for her vaunted virtues."

"Shut the fuck up Tripp!" he shouts as he angrily bolts upright, simultaneously pushing away the brunette. "It's not so simple okay… it's my fault… all of it is _my_ fault, not Blair's!"

"I suppose her other transgressions are your fault as well?" he asks, standing up as well, with a conniving tone that instantly reminds him too much of Grandfather, and it's clear nothing good will come out of what is to be said next. "Though, she certainly didn't seem all too concerned with _you_ when she was writhing wildly beneath _me_."

And at that, he goes mad.

His surprise and angry disbelief is starkly reflected in the darkening blue of his eyes as he takes an unsteady step forward, the world shaking underneath him. He hadn't expected such a blunt confession, not from Tripp, but he suspects he should despise him for it. So a bout of insanity claims him, to pick up the now empty bottle of Scotch and bring it down on his head… to pound him with his fists until there's nothing left to identify him from because he's sick and tired of being betrayed and played for an ignorant fool.

"You son of a bitch!"

Another step, and he's nearing closer. He pulls back his fist as he leans too heavily on one side, miscalculating what his intoxicated eyes tell him, spins a shaky circle, and falls over. His back collides heavily with the marble floor, and he registers laughter as he groans painfully, cheeks burning with embarrassment. He blinks several times, trying to clear his clouded vision as several silhouettes appear in his line of sight.

"I think you've had your fill of excitement for one night. I'll have someone take you home."

His head moves from side to side as he mumbles incoherent nothings, seeking out faces that are simply not there. What he sees are devils and monsters and vile beasts beyond nightmarish fantasy, their features distorted in grotesque, pulsing angles, and he panics like a cornered animal because this is not like any hallucination he has ever had and he is seriously freaking out.

"What… the hell… did you do to me?" he spits out at his cousin just as he's hoisted up.

"Goodnight, Nate."

He's efficiently dragged through many a room and hallways, the air throughout thick with something akin to incense of frankincense and myrrh, and it renders his mind heavy as he unsuccessfully tries to get a grip on his bearings. He sees much on the way; scenes so bizarre, and carnal and utterly depraved he doubts mere human fantasy brought them to life, and he decides Chuck would have felt more at home in this Hell than he ever could.

He knows they're finally out the front double doors when an icy gust of wind hits his heated face, the cold seeping through every layer he has on without mercy. The rapid change in temperature is a shock to the senses, and he staggers forward in drunken detachment as he falls to his knees upon the wet snow. And with no reservations, he empties his stomach onto a serene blanket of white.

He feels like crap as he's carefully hoisted into a warm town car, his conscious out of touch with just about everything going on around him, and yet he manages to catch his address being given to the driver.

"No, take me to Manhattan," he groans out, and mumbles Blair's address before sleep finally claims his haggard being.

* * *

"Sir, we're here."

He stirs tiredly, partly unwilling to step back into the cold. But he has something he needs to do, urgently, so he nods and steps out into the freezing New York night with a little more balance than what he's displayed all evening.

It's strange being back after all these years of self-imposed exile, and a wave of familiarity washes over him as he stares up at a building he's seen far too much of and knows all too well. His gaze is weary with recollection, for behind those walls some of his fondest memories unfurled. Memories once soothing, but alas, not anymore.

Chuck he can come to terms with; the choice obvious for many reasons he may never understand, but accepts nonetheless. Tripp, on the other hand… his own bloody family… that doesn't make any sense to him whatsoever. Blair had always been about love and fairytale endings, and thus applied that romantic idealism to everything in life… especially men. And try as he might, he can find no explanation, logical or illogical, for what allegedly transpired with his cousin. Nothing, save for one.

He thinks she _hates_ him.

Hates him so spitefully and absolutely that she would seek to indirectly humiliate and destroy him by playing Russian roulette with his heart, over and over again until the bullet finally finds its mark by inducing the greatest level of anguish possible. He doesn't want to believe he hurt her _that_ much; that his mistake concerning Serena would leave such a stigma so as to last well into the present, and possibly into the future. But Tripp's words continue to play in his mind – all the whys suddenly irrelevant – and all he's left with is an image so surreal and hurtful he is convinced she's succeeded in her goal of breaking him completely.

"Is this what you want, Blair?!" he shouts out loud from his spot on the pavement, earning a few disapproving glares from those near. He ignores them and drops into the snow for the second time that night.

"Is _this_ what you want, to see me broken and on my knees?! Are you finally satisfied?!"

He feels foolish, waiting for an answer that simply won't come. Doubly foolish, when he remembers she doesn't even live there anymore. With a heavy sigh, he stands up and does the only thing he can do; walk away.

He is a mental mess as he wanders aimlessly down the road, heeding little as he falls further and further into his proverbial pit of despair. So far gone, he almost doesn't hear an angel sing to him.

"Nate?"

He stills instantly, and looks up, only to see _her_.

It's like a scene from an old film; old lovers reunited by the work of fate alone, stunned speechless by the heavy implications of such an impromptu reunion as the minutes stretch into eternity. He's overwhelmed, to say the least, and full of conflicting emotions. It's been _so_ long, _too_ long, and his heart wants to jump at the sight of her – supposing it isn't _another_ frightening hallucination – but his mind is in shambles as he hears Tripp's voice yet again – _she certainly didn't seem all too concerned with _you_ when she was writhing wildly beneath _me – and all he sees, apart from red, is his cousin _having _her… against the wall, on hands and knees, on top of her, undeneath her… having her and taking her and claiming her… and his resolve crumbles. He _cannot_ do this again.

His gaze is hard as snow begins to fall around them, and he spares only a moment to take in her appearance. Blair had always managed to look pristine regardless of the time and weather, but he notes a slight impatient carelessness to her appearance. Her loose, wavy hair is dishevelled from where it falls around her face, her cheeks a light pink from having been out in the cold too long, and despite being no fashion prima donna, he knows the boots she's wearing do not match her fitted black coat. If he were feeling more considerate, he would have thought more on such an uncharacteristic lapse, but he simply cannot bring himself to care.

She takes a hesitant step towards him, the light from a street lamp offering him a better view of her features, and he only sees grief there. No joy, no surprise… not even a smile. She used to smile for him, once. Clearly, she intends to see him suffer some more.

And he _hates_ her for it.

And he _hates_ himself, and he wonders if he'll ever see forgiveness for his past sins. But he is being selfish, because somewhere in all his drunken musings, he reasons the unshed tears are not for him, but for another. Always _another_, and he's reminded of her spiteful fury and indiscretions – so much for her virtues, indeed – and he's in shambles yet again.

Oh yes, he _hates_ her all right. And _loves_ her. And _needs_ her. And he knows this cycle is not about to be broken any time soon.

He takes a deep breath in an attempt to clear his head. A part of him wants to turn around and leave her to the consequences of her choices – it isn't hard to guess what has happened. But try as he might, he can't. Because even after everything she has put him through, all the hopeless misery, the sight of her in pain still manages affect him so.

"…Nate?"

His eyes clamp shut at the sound of her voice, so sad and strained and nothing like the Blair Waldorf he knows, and it's _too_ much. His wounded heart and heated irrationality are quickly pushed aside, all the tragedies that have befallen them instantly forgotten, because he hasn't the strength or the will to prolong this duel anymore. He's tired, and miserable, and shattered, and at his end.

And so he weeps.

Weeps and weeps some more as all the years of cruel misfortune reign havoc on his heart, and soul, and being as he desperately seeks some measure of reprieve. Redemption, as well, for the both of them… for all they have done and all they have yet to do because they are, after all, merely pawns in love's cruel game.

He closes the distance quickly, reminded of his desire to right the many mistakes of their past if only to find what he really wants deep down; true solace in her arms once more. And so he takes her into a tight embrace, full of promises, and which means to last forever.

"I'm sorry," he croaks out through his tears, his hold tightening around her rigid form as he apologises for _everything_ and more. "I'm _so_ sorry!"

Her astonishment is short lived as she at last wraps her own arms around him, neither paying heed to the heavy snowfall as they lose themselves in the timeless sincerity of their current pose. She's considerably thinner, he notes worriedly, loathing to wonder just what she has been through, as warm silent tears fall like beacons of absolution upon his coat. She's accepted his apology. He, her unspoken regret, and in all this melancholy he at last sees a glimmer of hope that had long since been confined to the wistful whims of his dreams.

Maybe there is such a thing as second chances, after all.

* * *

He opens his heavy lids with considerable effort, blinking several times as bright morning light floods his vision. His head is heavy, and throbbing, and he concludes this is by far the worst hangover he has ever had. Delirious, he undertakes an odyssey of much needed recollection, but the night's memories elude him like an obscure dream as he shifts on the comfortable bed he finds himself on. With nothing to see save a swirling vortex of light, he closes his eyes; giving up on the fight to keep them open because he clearly needs more sleep.

He takes a deep breath, and is overwhelmed by a familiar scent of roses and Chanel. He smiles happily, finding comfort in this uncanny paradise that seems so real, and it isn't until the bed shifts beside him that he notes it is in fact _far_ too real. So he works on opening his eyes once more, and through a clearing haze he spots none other than Blair sleeping peacefully beside him.

He blinks.

And blinks some more.

Slowly, he begins to move his gaze, taking in the interior of a familiar white room; a room he spent a better part of his life in. Images of numerous afternoons spent watching old classics – a remote tight in his grasp whilst his fingers vied for the familiar curve of an XBOX controller – and late-night experiments between two incredibly naïve children learning how to kiss for the first time fill his mind. The nostalgia of it all is both bitter and sweet, and he wonders how on Earth he came to be here once again.

"Hey."

His gaze drops onto Blair's tired, but peaceful features. She offers him a smile, but his focus is momentarily drawn towards the dark circles under her weary eyes, and the protruding quality of her once full cheekbones. She looks exhausted… even a little sickly, and his mind is suddenly full of murderous intent, swearing vengeance upon the bastard that put her through such harrowing turmoil. He is her shinning knight, after all, and such is his duty… to _protect_ her well into eternity. To _love_ her well into eternity… even if she should have him crawl through the depths of Hades just to prove his untimely devotion. Even if….

She frowns, visibly tensing under his harsh gaze, and he quickly curses his lack of prudence.

"Hey," he echoes quickly with a warm smile, calming his features so as to not alarm her further.

Once she relaxes, he takes her left hand in his with a reassuring hold, absently noting the lack of a diamond ring as he finally registers the enormous task before him. But he is ready for it.

"How do you feel about breakfast in bed?" he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "And _Tiffany's_?"

She bites her lower lip and grins happily, and he convinces himself it's worth sitting through that cursed movie for the umpteenth time just to see her face light up so. And so he trades in a crested blazer wrought with expectations and tradition for an Audrey Hepburn DVD without hesitation. For_ this_ is where he belongs, at the beck and call of his Queen.

And as they spend the day getting reacquainted with one another, with such _fidelity_ might he add, he realises they are _not_ one of history's greatest love stories. For greatness, befits tragedy, and he can safely say that both have had their fair share of grisly drama to last a lifetime. No, they are just a couple of childhood sweethearts that could never quite learn to appreciate one another, separated as a course of fate, but reunited just the same as they learn how to love all over again.

They are not Paris and Helen.

Nor Mark Antony and Cleopatra.

Nor Romeo and Juliet.

They are just Nate and Blair.

He turns towards the screen just as Paul finishes his rant on cages and free spirits, and is met with Holly's solemn tears. As Blair snuggles closer to him, watching with bated breath as they look for Cat, he decides there is still one thing he has to do before the day is through….

And that's to punch Chuck Bass in the face.

_Fin_


End file.
